As Selo dis­cov­ered, Krämer may have writ­ten in a man­ual for inquisi­tors RE: witch­craft, “What else is woman but a foe to friend­ship, an inescapable pun­ish­ment, a nec­es­sary evil, a nat­ural temp­ta­tion, a desir­able calamity, a domes­tic dan­ger, a delec­table detri­ment, an evil of nature, painted with fair col­ors!”, but 120 years later Shake­speare exceeded him (though, it must be said, in a work of com­edy con­sid­ered — per­haps — to be self-parodic in rela­tion to his ear­lier works):

POSTHUMUS.
Is there no way for men to be, but women
Must be half-workers? We are all bas­tards,
And that most ven­er­a­ble man which I
Did call my father was I know not where
When I was stamp’d. Some coiner with his tools
Made me a coun­ter­feit; yet my mother seem’d
The Dian of that time. So doth my wife
The non­pareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance!
Me of my law­ful plea­sure she restrain’d,
And pray’d me oft for­bear­ance; did it with
A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on’t
Might well have warm’d old Sat­urn; that I thought her
As chaste as unsunn’d snow. O, all the dev­ils!
This yel­low Iachimo in an hour– was’t not?
Or less!- at first? Per­chance he spoke not, but,
Like a full-acorn’d boar, a Ger­man one,
Cried “O!’ and mounted; found no oppo­si­tion
But what he look’d for should oppose and she
Should from encounter guard. Could I find out
The woman’s part in me! For there’s no motion
That tends to vice in man but I affirm
It is the woman’s part. Be it lying, note it,
The woman’s; flat­ter­ing, hers; deceiv­ing, hers;
Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers;
Ambi­tions, cov­et­ings, change of prides, dis­dain,
Nice long­ing, slan­ders, muta­bil­ity,
All faults that man may name, nay, that hell knows,
Why, hers, in part or all; but rather all;
For even to vice
They are not con­stant, but are chang­ing still
One vice but of a minute old for one
Not half so old as that. I’ll write against them,
Detest them, curse them. Yet ’tis greater skill
In a true hate to pray they have their will:
The very dev­ils can­not plague them bet­ter. [Exit]

Cym­be­line, Act II Scene V.